Chapter One
"Mom, I don’t feel safe." Fifteen-year-old Rory Falcon said.
Archer Falcon opened her eyes and tried to focus on the illuminated hands on the clock beside her bed. It was either ten minutes after midnight or two in the morning. A cool September breeze blew through the open window. A Bangor, Maine sanitation truck rolled along the street, whirling brushes spraying water and sweeping the road.
Lit by a moonbeam, Rory paced at the foot of her bed, following the path he had previously worn in the carpet. Five steps forward, five steps back. Repeat.
I don’t feel safe. Archer knew the meaning of the words. Rory's counselors used it; the high school used it; the psychiatrists used it. He was contemplating suicide.
She pulled the string on the faux Tiffany lamp next to the bed, feeling tears in the back of her eyes and tightness in the hallows of her throat. She looked at him to assess. There were no new cuts on his arms or chest. His face had narrowed over the last year and his chest and shoulders had broadened. His deep blue eyes were watery and sad. His mop of golden hair was mussed. He was wearing black flannel pajama bottoms peppered with white skulls. He wore black, even his pajamas, so people would not approach him.
Archer had prepared a written list years ago for moments like this. She no longer needed to refer to it. She had it memorized.
Speak quietly. Assess the situation. Keep calm. Involve Rory in his own care. Call crisis hotline. Call psychiatrist. Go to Emergency Room.
He stopped moving and faced her. Dark circles lurked under his eyes.
"Have you slept at all?" Archer asked.
"No, and I have a really bad headache." He pointed to the top of his head. A tear escaped down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away.
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